An Open Letter to Oxaliplatin

Dear Oxaliplatin,

Today I realized our relationship is over. After six months of bi-weekly intimacies -- and how much more intimate can you get than the way you rushed through my chest port straight to my heart? -- you will soon just be a memory to me, and I will just be a statistic to you.

Like all relationships, ours had its ups and downs; and like many relationships, most of the ups came at the beginning and most of the ends appeared toward the end. I cannot deny that when I learned after Cycle 4 that you’d reduced the size of my tumors, my fondness for you grew. A shrinking tumor is a good tumor, and how can one not love the agent responsible for forcing their tumor to turn from evil to good?

But I’m sad to say that troubling signs had already begun, even while you were encouraging my tumors to behave. That thing you do to my mouth? That is not “sexy,” that is not “fun” -- it’s bloody annoying, and the fact that every time we got together it only got worse was probably the ultimate cause of our inevitable breakup. Frankly, I find this most recent round, and the way my lip now tingles and gets weird the minute it touches cold liquid, intolerable. I love ice, and I do not like drinking through a straw.

Similarly, I fear I may have misinterpreted the feelings you generated in my abdomen. Love is frequently described as a feeling of “butterflies in your stomach,” and for the past six months I’ve certainly been feeling something in my stomach. But after what I’ve seen, smelt and felt, I’ve determined that what’s in my stomach ain’t butterflies.

For these reasons, and all the scary things an ongoing relationship might cause, I've consulted with the experts and decided it’s time we go our separate ways.

I have no doubt that eventually some of those experts will try to persuade us to get back together. “You responded so well to Oxaliplatin,” they’ll tell me. “Oxaliplatin was so effective with your tumors.” All true, but also beside the point. There’s more to life than the size of your tumors -- at least qualitatively; quantitatively the size of your tumors may be pretty much dispositive -- and at risk of coming across as an alcoholic, the Happy Hour is a very important part of a happy life. Also crucial to a happy life is the ability to limit your abdomen feelings to one: hunger.

If we’re ever getting back together, Oxaliplatin, you’re going to have to figure out how to do your important work on the tumors without the annoying and life-diminishing (again, qualitatively) side effects. A life without iced beverages is just not something I’m interested in.

But regardless, I will always reflect fondly on your impact on my tumors.

I wish you all the best,

john